The Rusticated Duchess (13 page)

Gloria’s mind spun, but it wasn’t because he was turning her and laying her on the crushed upholstery. Heat enveloped her, though the room was cool and the fireplace empty. Emotion, unfamiliar and unidentified, surged in her stomach and travelled up her spine and she knew a moment of bitter regret that her adulthood had not started with this experience of tingling, rich sensations inflaming her skin, with this man’s eager mouth and his fingers gliding over her flesh.

She’d never wanted to touch the sweaty, lunging body that had lurched over her, before. Here—now, with Clare—she wanted. She ached to slide her palms over the hot surface of his chest, for her greedy eyes to see a vision of muscle and skin. When Clare’s jacket disappeared and his waistcoat was discarded, she tugged on his shirt hem and slid beneath it as he pulled it over his head. Gloria’s palms burned at the sensation, but she pressed them higher over the skin above her, faintly brushing the hardened nubs over his pectoral muscles. In response, he shuddered and joy rushed through her mind and down to the throbbing place between her thighs.

She could bring Clare the same uncontrollable pleasure she felt when he touched her. The knowledge was heady and a smile of unalloyed eagerness turned the corners of her lips upward.

One of Clare’s hands slid beneath them, and he cupped her bottom cheek in his palm. The silk of the chemise prevented direct contact, but Gloria gasped and felt the blood drain from her head.

Clare’s knee slipped between hers as his hand tugged up on the chemise. He explored the top edge of her chemise, which was held up by narrow bands of fabric over each shoulder and closed by tiny buttons down the front. He slipped the tiny jet buttons free, his fingers dipping inside to trace the inner curves of her breasts. Gloria moaned, resting her hands on his chest and rubbing almost anxiously over the hard brown nubs of his small nipples.

Gloria knew they were frantic motions, but she did not know how to slow down the rush of desperation and longing that filled her. Clare spread her chemise open, baring her breasts to the dim light of the room when his muscles jerked and tensed in responsive arousal. Embarrassment flared to life in the back of her mind, but her eyes fluttered open in time to see the tight, utterly fascinated expression on Clare’s face and he shifted above her, his erect manhood rubbing against the front of her thigh. When he made a strange guttural sound and his head bent so that his mouth could worship at her, all notion of shame faded.

She arched, lifting her breast to his mouth and the hot touch of his lips. They fastened around the plump pink tissue and a current of pleasure went directly to Gloria’s brain. She moaned, the sound somewhat strange to her own ears, but Clare simply kissed across and repeated his drink at her other breast.

Gloria arched beneath him, aching as sharp delightful sensations flowed up and down her spine. Her hips rolled instinctively in invitation, and she was cravenly grateful to find the chemise pulled up in front and Clare’s palm brushing roughly over the tender skin between her thighs.

She shuddered and spread her legs, inviting him to make that same delicious stroke even more intimately. Gloria bent and lifted her knee and his hip shifted so that Clare knelt between her open legs, so Gloria instinctively moved her other ankle and hooked it in the back of his knee for leverage.

She still wore her warm, black stockings, the garters tied above her knees, but Clare didn’t seem to notice or mind. He used his lips and tongue to taste her abdomen and her tummy, then her navel. Instead of overpowering and taunting her, Clare worshipped her pale skin. He murmured to Gloria about the its texture and the faint scent of sweet pea in her soap that rose from her pores in the wake of his caress.

She was not revolted by or even merely resigned to and tolerant of Clare’s touch and taste.

Gloria felt impassioned. Bold. Eager. Until he grasped both of her hips—one in each hand—and set his lips against the mound of blonde curls that shielded her moist folds.

After that, Gloria’s mind whirled through a cornucopia of unimaginable delight. She could not have said precisely what his tongue did or where his teeth scraped. Later she would not remember that her hands fisted in his hair and scalp as a series of orgasms flooded her. Gloria would not know then or for some time that her body loosed a stream of rich cream that Clare had sucked and lapped up shamelessly.

Gloria did remember the moment he surged up over her, the blunt head of his erection unerringly lined up and nudging the dark cavern inside her. She’d never thought of it as the core of her body before, but Gloria realised in a dizzying moment that it was. She ached with a burning need that originated around the hard cock easing inside her body. Her longing was centred there, where Clare was nudging inward one patient inch at a time.

Her eyes rolled back in her head when he was finally fully at rest within her. The sensation of his hot length rubbing at the entry to her womb made her eyes widen in unfamiliar alarm, but his unnatural groan of agony stopped her cold. She peered at him, at the drawn lines of his face and the stark passion reflected in his eyes, and lust struck her. Seeing this man in the throes of need in response to her was shocking and gratifying. But Gloria’s reaction went even deeper. A primal satisfaction erupted in her middle. She rocked, and the movement caused the smallest friction of cock to vaginal wall. But it was motion enough.

Clare’s jaw clenched impossibly hard, his pupils—already wide and hazy from passion and the half-lit room—glittered. He withdrew a few inches before his hips took over and he thrust back in.

After that, Gloria was lost again. A vision hung in her mind of Clare’s eyes closing, the long lashes nearly brushing his cheeks. A haunting moan of her name—but not her name—hung in the back of her mind. “Glory,” he moaned, and that was it. A single word she’d never imagined applied to her, but fit this heaven she floated on all the same. She tasted perspiration and the stubble on his chin, but it was sweet and she wanted more. Clare buried his head in her shoulder, and lunged forwards and back, jerking awkwardly on the narrow settee.

When he ejaculated, hot liquid splashed inside her. He loosed a mighty groan of satisfaction and she shuddered as distant waves of pleasure pulsed through her lower body.

Overwhelmed, her eyelids fluttered closed and she slept.

When she awoke, she was cold and alone. Naked but for her stockings, on the settee in the front parlour with the window curtains drawn wide, she realised he’d been gone for some time. Her clothes had been picked up and were laid out neatly, waiting for her to dress herself. The key had been thrust under the door and shone on the rug.

They were small considerations, Gloria thought to herself, her body drained and sticky and sore. She snorted, then, because those small gestures were so much more considerate than March had ever been. Still, she permitted the tears to course silently down her cheeks, because it was so much less than she had wanted from Clare.

Chapter Nine

The shame of having conducted even a momentary affair in her own parlour, under the very noses of her household staff, only occurred to Gloria an hour later. She emerged from the parlour, leaving the key in the lock, only to face Colman.

He stood against the opposite wall of the hall, arms stiff. Brody’s words from the gazebo brushed through her mind and she blanched, then straightened her back, determined to brazen out any disapproval with her head held high. Inwardly she might have been mortified, but she would not let Colman see any of her humiliation. He had endured too many of these awkward encounters outside her apartment door in Lennox House already, mornings in which he had remained expressionless and blank while she had walked past him, eyes to the ground as she remembered her cries of distress.

If Colman listened this time, he would already know her reaction had been spectacularly different. Spectacularly
better
.

Gloria’s breath caught and instead of remaining cool and collected, she blushed.

Colman met her eyes, deadly intent in them. “His lordship has left you a note and has requested you join him for luncheon tomorrow.” He assessed her features frankly in an examination he never would have done in London, but Gloria could not bring herself to set his concern aside. “Or if you choose it, we can leave for Italy within hours, my lady.”

Gloria was unwilling to allow him to think, even for one minute, that he’d stood by while she’d endured the attentions of yet another unwanted rogue. Gathering her courage and swallowing hard, she blurted out, “He didn’t hurt me.”

Colour flared on his cheeks, but he acknowledged her statement with a short nod. “If I believed you were not willing, my lady,” Colman said after a long moment of silence, “I’d have taken down the door, lock or not.”

“Not with him, Colman,” Gloria returned quietly, as he lifted a salver from the hall table with a note folded on it. The message wasn’t sealed, so she knew it contained nothing private, but she folded it into her fist and went on, “I believe I shall join him for lunch. I’ll write a note and Mr Pitcher can deliver it.”

By late the next morning, half-dressed for her luncheon assignation—for Gloria had no misconceptions on that score—she had second thoughts. Reassuring one’s guard was not enough reason to share a man’s bed, and Gloria had more reason than most widows to fear an unexpected
affaire
.

Still, she was determined to appear before him at least once in attire suited to her—not in her walking dress, or in a serviceable gown with an apron skirt stained with baby spit. She’d had enough of being caught in her muddied dress and walking boots, of being surprised by his unannounced visits, when she was wearing a wool gown or linen dress. For once, at least, she would meet him in a manner appropriate to her class and breeding. Astrid had come up and wound her hair on her head in an elegant arrangement, curling the golden ends so they bounced against her shoulders flirtatiously. She’d donned black silk translucent stockings and a chemise of black silk trimmed in narrow satin ribbons and fine black knitted lace. After that, Astrid had helped her don a black corset and pulled it tight, pushing up her bosom and cinching her waist so tightly she would need a half-hour to simply learn to breathe in it. They’d added a single black flannel petticoat for warmth.

All that remained was to have Astrid help her tie the heeled black slippers around her ankles and don her gown. It was pressed and waiting—the flattering confection of black silk edged with black velvet was cut low enough to display Gloria’s new matronly décolletage to advantage. A complementary black velvet pelisse—not the warm one she wore for walking but fit for even Hyde Park on a warm afternoon—would finish her attire. The carriage would protect her from the elements because Gloria had no intention of sitting at Clare’s luncheon table—no matter its actual location—in either her muddied boots or stocking feet.

If I go.

The thought flitted through her mind, then gained leverage. Obeying his abrupt summons—the note had been nothing more than a pencilled instruction to join him at one in the afternoon for the meal—would be giving her tacit approval to being seduced. She could hardly complain later if she, in fact, had accepted his invitation and dined at his house without the presence of a father, uncle, brother, or troop of female chaperones. Simply put, ladies of her station did not visit bachelor establishments, even if said residences were legendary castles with the best view in County Down.

A rustling at the door broke into her thoughts. Astrid entered with Mrs Sinclair close behind. At the grave look on the housekeeper’s face, Gloria stood. “What’s happened?” she demanded.

“A messenger from His Grace,” Mrs Sinclair said, thrusting out a hand with a long white envelope. Gloria’s fingers trembled as violently as Mrs Sinclair’s as she took it and sat stiffly at her escritoire.

The words from Lennox were brief and rushed, the message clear, but it could have been condensed simply to ‘
Watch for strangers and be ready to run’
. Chancery had begun hearing Winchester’s case, and the judges had made no ruling but heard evidence and seemed to favour the sympathetic and wronged father that Winchester played. Lennox had included guardianship papers and travel documents for the Italian authorities, and was sending authorisations for Gloria to withdraw funds to his banks in Dublin, Paris and Rome.

The last sheet contained brief notes from her mother, Fiona, Genevieve and a hastily added note from Abigail. Gloria drew a deep breath and held it, then exhaled slowly.
They were all there, each in their own way working to help her and Eynon. Meriden and Abigail had used Meriden’s financial resources to distract Winchester and delay him for months already. Lennox and Gloria’s mother, of course, were focused on the actions and drawn out processes of the Chancery Court. Fiona and, surprisingly, Genevieve were making the social rounds and presenting the sisters’ position with flawless grace, eliciting such sympathy against Winchester’s plan to separate Gloria from her son that Winchester was no longer welcomed even in his clubs. Too many gentlemen, shocked by the scandal and the loss of Winchester House to his own son-in-law, had insisted the earl pay up IOUs and past due gambling debts only to find that Winchester had stretched even his entailed resources.

Gloria devoutly hoped he’d not be able to find the money to pay his solicitors either, but that hardly seemed likely.

Her voice shaking a little, Gloria related the news to Mrs Sinclair, then set her hand to a sheet of paper. “I’ll not go out of course.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs Sinclair said stoutly, to Gloria’s surprise and Astrid’s outward shock. “You’ll only stay here to fret. And they’ll be lookin’ for you, not the baby. Jenson will look out for the little lord, and you’ll be as safe up in the Castle as at Lennox House, especially with Colman and Mr Pitcher watchin’ the road for any trouble.”

Gloria stared at her with a growing realisation. Whether Mrs Sinclair disliked Clare or disapproved of Gloria’s assignation with him, she’d identified Killard Castle with safety.